Left to Follow Vignettes
by Peradan
Summary: Vignettes of characters from the Left to Follow universe.
1. Anne de Bourgh

My mother was at the centre of our world. My father happily obeyed her every command; I rather less happily did the same. I did not believe there was anyone who did _not _hasten to show their respect and obedience for her. She was not as clever as she was thought, nor as she thought herself; but she made up for it in sheer presence. _I_ had inherited my father's presence, or lack thereof; but next to my mother, even the most alarming of individuals dwindled into insignificance, or so it seemed.

She was not beautiful, my mother, but she had been handsome in her youth, striking rather than pretty. She favoured her father as I favoured mine; she had the same dark, almost black hair, the same dark green eyes, the same severe patrician features grown harsh with age.

I loved her, in my way. She was a _difficult _person to be fond of, and often I disliked her heartily. But she was my mother, and she took care of me, and I did love her. I remember, whenever I was ill — and it was often — she hardly left my side. Whatever else she may have been, she was a devoted mother; too devoted, probably. I was safe with her, always; for who would dare oppose her?

Then, the summer that I was eight, I discovered the most astonishing thing. My mother did _not _rule everyone, and everyone did _not_ defer to her. I remember, I sat by her, struggling with my work (mother had decided my health _did _permit me to learn embroidery) as she read her correspondence. My father was reading a very slender book.

"Lewis," mamma declared (she never merely _said _anything), "my sister is coming to Rosings."

"How nice," said papa vaguely. I had rarely seen my Fitzwilliam relations; only the de Bourghs, all of whom were very disagreeable, rather stupid, and much older than I, spent much time at Rosings. As mamma was much younger and cleverer than papa, I hoped these ones would be better; although, of course, I knew little of them.

The Fitzwilliams gathered at the ancestral estate, Houghton, every winter, around Christmastime, and mamma usually went; but she judged my health too poor to allow me to attend, so I stayed at home with my father. Father was the opposite of mother; rather delicate, easily swayed, and oblivious to all that went on around him. Mother said he had no head for details, but to be perfectly honest, he had no head for much at all. During those long, dull winters, he noticed me insofar as to say a few words — "Oh, good morning . . . Anne." I was frankly surprised that he remembered he had a daughter at all, let alone her name.

My aunt had married a Mr Darcy, a man whose fortune, name, and property were considerably greater and older than either of my parents'. I had never set eyes on him, and only vaguely remembered my namesake. So, when the Darcys first stepped into our dark, gloomy parlour, I could scarcely believe my eyes. I blinked dizzily, certain they could not be real — that they had stepped out of a storybook or even my imagination.

My uncle was the one of the handsomest men I had everseen, tall and slim, with pale hair and bright clear eyes. His face was even nicer when he smiled — it made a dent in his left cheek — and he smiled often. My aunt was as dark as he was fair; her face was rendered especially beautiful by her brilliant dark eyes; she looked like a fairy-story princess. And, of course, _they _had the requisite son and heir, a small male replica of his mother. I was so completely overwhelmed that I could hardly think, let alone speak; and they had not so much as said a word.

Then they spoke, and it only got worse. Soon after being announced, my aunt was saying, in her sweet, calm voice, "Catherine, surely you are mistaken?" Not thirty seconds later, my uncle added authoritatively,

"I must respectfully disagree, Catherine; sometimes it is best to leave people to themselves."

In the course of a single half-hour, they had contradicted or argued with my mother no less than _eighteen _times, and she did not even seem upset. And at dinner, my cousin piped up, "Aunt Catherine, that can't be right," and proceeded to explain, to explain to _mamma_, why she was wrong! This from a boy scarcely eight years old, a full two months my junior!

She did not seem angered. In fact, she looked on my cousin with clear approval, and remarked to my aunt on what a fine son she had raised. (She never spoke to my uncle Darcy if she could help it.) The son in question looked decidedly annoyed, apparently oblivious to the honour of being unreservedly complimented by my mother.

The next morning, we were sent away to entertain ourselves while the adults spoke of whatever it was adults speak of. It was terribly awkward, because I had no idea what to say to this strange boy-creature who happened to share half my blood, while he seemed completely undisturbed by the silence between us. He looked around the room with frank curiosity, and finally, when I could bear it no longer, I blurted out, "I am Anne de Bourgh."

My cousin, who had turned to examine a portrait of some long-dead ancestor of papa's, glanced over his shoulder. His expression turned faintly pitying. "Yes," he said kindly, "I know."

"I meant, I didn't properly introduce myself, I couldn't, because I was so nervous, with everyone _looking_ at me."

"_Oh." _He turned around to face me, and I was rather comforted to see the deep red staining his cheeks. He had a very fair complexion, which however fashionable did nothing to conceal embarrassment. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. It's nice to meet you." We shook hands quite soberly, and I desperately tried to think of something else.

"Thank you. Do you, er, like Rosings?"

Anybody else would have said _yes _or _of course _without thinking about it, because that is how one responds to such inquiries. Even I knew that. Fitzwilliam, however, was not anybody else. He tilted his head to the side in what I had already recognised as a habitual gesture, and looked around. "Oh, it's very fine," he said, after a moment's thought. "Your trees have strange shapes, though."

Having often thought the very same thing myself, I could hardly reply to this. "Thank you," I managed again. "Is it much like where you live?"

At this, his face lit up with a smile, the mirror image of his father's down to the dent in his cheek. I thought it decidedly unfair that he should be so much prettier than I, when he was a boy and it didn't matter whether he was pretty or not. "Not at all," he said happily. "Our park is bigger, but I think maybe it only _looks _bigger, because we have woods and a stream and we don't carve our trees up, oh, and we can see some mountains."

I thought it rather odd that he had only talked of the out-of-doors. Perhaps it was a boy thing, although the boy de Bourghs didn't seem very interested in that kind of thing. Besides, mamma was very interested in the outside, too. Perhaps it was a Fitzwilliam thing. "Is the house nice?"

"Oh! yes," he said, suddenly very talkative. "There are more windows at Pemberley than here, I can always see outside, but it looks different from wherever I am. And there are all sorts of rooms, and the library is so big that I went to sleep once in there and they spent three whole hours looking for me before they found me. And the colours are lighter, especially in mother's rooms —"

"You've been in your mother's rooms?" I interrupted, staring in unabashed astonishment.

"Of course. She's my _mother_. I always go to her room in the morning, and we talk. She likes to see me alone sometimes."

I blinked. "What for?"

He looked at me as if I'd grown another head. "I don't know. Just to talk, and if she has bad dreams, or if I do, she lets me sleep with her, and it makes her feel better to be with me when she's sad."

I struggled to wrap my mind around this. The idea of fairytale-princess Aunt Anne ever being sad or having nightmares was difficult enough, but that someone, particularly a someone who was my mother's sister, should _want _her child with her when she was in such a state, was so very peculiar. "Why?" I asked bluntly.

"Because, when you're unhappy, it makes you — less sad, I think — to be with people, or even just one person, who you _know _loves you, no matter what you do or think or say. Or someone _you _love, no matter what _they _do. Or someone who is like you and doesn't keep on talking about how you should be different. Mother has these fits of unhappiness sometimes, but it's easier when she's with me, or Aunt Catherine, or my uncle, or grandmother."

"Oh," I said softly, feeling vaguely ashamed without being certain why — and rather curious about what, exactly, constituted a _fit of unhappiness_. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," he said haughtily, then looked at the window. "Do you ever leave the house?"

I shrugged. "Mamma says I'm an invalid, that cold air is bad for me, so I have to stay inside."

It was Fitzwilliam's turn to stare. "It's summer, Anne. The air isn't cold."

"Well—"

"Besides, I'm an invalid too. When I was little, everyone was always saying I was going to die. Of course I knew better, and mamma, but it was _most vexing_." He sounded exactly like my mother, if mamma had ever spoken in a clear, piping voice. "And so I _had _to play outside, so I'd get stronger. Besides, has Aunt Catherine _said _you can't play outside?"

"Well . . ." I tried to think. "Not exactly."

"Then, it's all right. Come with me, I saw a nice tree that hadn't been cut up yet. We can try and climb it."

"But — but we're not supposed to!"

"Did anyone _say _so?"

"No, but — "

"It's fine then. Come on." He grabbed my wrist, and as if he had perfect right to do anything he wanted, marched outside after informing a servant that he was going to teach me how to play properly. That was the first day; but it was a long visit, and there were many others. I looked forward to each morning as I never had before; somehow, when I was with my cousin, his force of personality granted me my own sort of strength. He took my side in every argument, insisted that I had just as much right to be heard as anyone else, and whatever my feelings, assured me that they were right and proper. I quite forgot that he was an eight-year-old child like myself; but I was so awestruck, it never occurred to me that they might be anything less than perfect. They could not, they could not err or falter; others might, but not the Darcys, the fairy-tale king and queen ruling over their far-away fairy-tale kingdom of Pemberley, with my cousin as the fairy-tale prince. Not _them_.


	2. Lady Catherine de Bourgh

_**A/N: **A more sympathetic, perhaps too sympathetic, Lady Catherine to go with Miss de Bourgh. The likes of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, in my opinion, are not born but made; and the young Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam must have been a very different sort of person. Also a look at the young Lady Anne. Oh, and the ellipses (. . .) are the bits Lady Catherine is tuning out. This is pretty much the first piece of fanfic I ever wrote, edited a little._

"My dear Lady Catherine, my _dearest _Lady Catherine . . . pray forgive the violence of my language, I not know what my dear mother would say — speaking of whom, your ladyship, I was recently meditating on the very great loss I have felt, the loss of guidance and direction, which I assure you has been felt _most acutely_ . . . and, feeling this acute loss, I searched for someone who could properly fill her shoes, a lady who possessed the same greatness of mind, ability to govern, and, if I may say so, sweetness of temper . . . dearest Lady Catherine, I find that none other than _you _combines these virtues, and that I would be honoured, nay, _delighted_, were you to consent to my offer."

Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam eyed the creature before her. "I hope, sir," she said haughtily, "that this — speech — constitutes an offer of marriage."

Sir Lewis blinked. "My dearest Lady Catherine, I should not presume to insult a fair and noble maiden such as yourself by any other such thing!"

"Ah," said Catherine. There was a muffled sound from behind the sofa. "Very well, I accept. You may call at six o'clock this evening, and speak to my father. Goodbye."

"Yes, your ladyship," declared Sir Lewis, and dashed out of the room. Catherine sighed. A pity there were not more desirable specimens of easily-led, non-vicious owners of vast amount of property. She had seriously considered George Darcy but alas, he quite failed that first test of persuadability, and was also determinedly wooing Anne. She had warned her about his dangerous lack of tractability, but Anne _would _go her own way. Of course, Fitzwilliams always went their own way, it was perfectly proper.

Except when they hid behind furniture and eavesdropped on other people's marriage proposals. "Really, Anne," Catherine said primly, "if you cannot control yourself you should mind your own affairs."

"I only have one," Anne said, standing up and dusting her skirt off. "And it is so uninspiringly suitable I must find entertainment elsewhere."

Catherine sniffed.

"Shall we copy down that proposal for the edification of future generations?"

Catherine stiffened in horror. "Certainly not." Then, with a despairing look — "Anne, _please_, don't, you must not, please be serious. You must understand."

"Of course, dearest sister." Anne sighed, and clasped her sister's hand. "You shall run mad if you do not have your own establishment, and wealthy men willing to be managed by their wives are few and far between."

"Precisely," said Catherine, squashing any trace of uncertainty. "Mr Darcy is not — "

"Oh!" said Anne, with a laugh, "I do not mean to _manage _him, it would be quite impossible. You see, I would rather have a sensible husband than a tractable one, and men of intelligence and good sense, with wealth, connections, and property, are also not easy to find. He is a fine man, and it would be a most valuable connection for our family — you know how ancient and respectable they are. I am tired, Catherine, of being looked down on as some sort of interloper, of the _insufferable _condescension and superiority of these people — " As her voice rose, she stopped, and looked down, calming herself. "No one would _dare _look down on _Lady Anne Darcy_, you know that, and I could do far worse." Anxiously, she said, "You understand, don't you?"

Catherine looked at her sister's tightly-clenched hands, and thought of the idiotic proposal she had just accepted. "Yes, Anne," she said gently. "I understand."


	3. the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam

Henry Fitzwilliam was, from his earliest hours, an unexpected and unwelcome addition to the family. In this respect, little changed throughout his life. The Fitzwilliams, at least in public, were proud, reserved, distantly civil, and very cold. Henry shared the family pride and wilfulness, but to all appearances, nothing else. He was wild, constantly ran up debts, delighted in notoriety and scandal, and alienated everyone but his mother and sister.

He was better-suited to the continent, where he could live as he pleased without harming his family. His father and brother had always looked at him with a mixture of disdain and pity, and he preferred to avoid thinking about his eldest sister altogether, but mother, she deserved better than that. She _cared_, and although Henry could not mourn his father he could mourn _with _his mother, for once upon a time she had thrown respectability to the winds for that man. And Anne, dearest Anne, their father had doted on her as she had doted on Henry, Anne with her charming, kind ways and brilliant eyes; she deserved better as well. Whether he gave her jewels with a long and usually bloody past, or bizarre statues so out of place in the refined elegance of Pemberley that she had to hide them, or whether he was a small child proudly depositing a frog in her slender white hands, she did not care; a radiant smile of gratitude, a graceful touch of her fingers against his cheek, the proud light in her eyes, it was always the same. _She _was always the same.

Not even for Anne, however, could he stay in England. He visited Pemberley, and despite his astonished admiration for the place, it was too much for him. It was _too _ideal, he preferred the chaos of a disorderly house and nervous servants and the various other trappings of his life abroad. It perfectly suited his sister, however, and he was pleased to see her again. France was not precisely safe at the time, even for the less financially-advantaged, so he decided for once to avoid trouble by surprising his sister. She was in her parlour, embroidering some dainty feminine thing, and at her side was a slender dark-haired boy, absorbed in a book.

"How _very _charming you look, my dearest sister," he declared; "I feel quite the rascal next to you."

She looked up in astonishment, dropped her work. "Henry? Henry, it can't — you aren't — oh!" She stood up, trembling slightly, and with two quick steps he was across the room, lifting her into his arms. He could feel how light she was — lighter than he recalled — but he determined to think about that later.

"I thought to surprise you, Anne," he said easily, and Anne sniffed, pressing fingers against her eyes.

"You have certainly managed that." Then she touched his cheek in her old way and gave him a despairing look. "Must you _always _do everything so — peculiarly?"

"Of course," laughed Henry, "I should not wish to be taken for granted."

"_That_ is not a great danger, since I hardly see you," she said reproachfully, and he felt a twinge of conscience. He had a wife and two children he scarcely ever saw; he had never cared for Cecilia, but he should probably have taken responsibility for the children. Little Henry must be six or seven by now, only a little older than the child solemnly regarding him. But Anne and mother were the only ones he really thought of.

Anne turned. "You have not met my son, have you?"

Henry approached the child, who put his hands behind his back and met his gaze steadily. "I have not yet had that honour. I am Henry Fitzwilliam, your uncle; and what are you called, young man?"

After a brief hesitation, the child extended his small hand. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, sir," he said quietly. Henry knelt down and shook his hand.

"A fine name," he said cheerfully, looking carefully at his youngest nephew. There was a peculiar striking quality to him; although the Fitzwilliams were indisputably an attractive family, the boy was beautiful rather than handsome, and the gracious propriety of his manners was somehow unnerving in so young a child. His pallor was not solely the consequence, as Henry had initially thought, of a fair complexion with nearly black hair; the hand clasped in his own was nearly transparent, and there was no trace of childhood plumpness in him. He had, in his travels, seen children like this before, but he had never seen one of them grow very old; and his chest ached a little as Fitzwilliam clung to his mother's side.

"Have you any siblings, Fitzwilliam?"

"Not ezactly, sir," Fitzwilliam said gravely. "Richard and Ella and Henry are just as good, although I would like a little sister. Henry says we can share Cecily though when she grows up a bit."

"How very kind of him," said Henry, smiling. "What are you reading of?"

"King Alfred. He was a very good man, like my papa." Anne compressed her lips and looked away.

Several hours later, once his sister had restrained him from walking into Mr Darcy's study and attacking him bare-handedly, he realised how very fortunate he was. The distance from Anne and mother hurt, it was true; but he had no pestering, prude of a wife (well, he _had _her, but he didn't have to see her), no ill-fated children to look after, no perfect name to live up to; he was simply himself, Henry, ne'er-do-well extraordinaire. With fond farewells to his sister and nephew (his brother he did not trust himself to look at), he returned with some relief to the continent.

A revolution was always an uncertain business. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam was one of the earliest foreign casualties of the war in France.


	4. Lady Eleanor Fitzwilliam

"Lady Eleanor, your eyes are as the sky on a midsummer's day — "

"Lady Eleanor, what an unexpected pleasure!"

"Tell me, Lady Eleanor, is your brother in town this season?"

"What a lovely bonnet, Lady Eleanor, where _did _you find it?"

"May I request the honour of the third set, Lady Eleanor?"

What fools they were. So stupid and so _funny_ in their way. When I came out, I could hardly believe the absurdity. No wonder the entire family was grave and proud and proper in public, it was the only way to keep our faces straight. I was exactly the same. How could one take these people seriously, with their inane conversation and abysmally poor poetry, their vapid self-consequence and superficial deference? We none of us could manage it. There were some, there were sensible, well-bred people we associated with and even befriended; but even they were always _they_, others, not-one-of-us.

It was odd how insidious the sheer triviality of life was, though. When I danced with my seventeen-year-old cousin at my wedding, I remember saying something about the opera we had attended the week before, just making conversation as all people did, something about how lovely the hall was and how charming the performers —

"I thought the hall ostentatious, the performers mediocre, and the plot dull and fashionable," he said dismissively. "Ella, you will still come to Houghton this Christmas? Grandmother will be terribly disappointed, if you both stay away; I'm sure it will be very dull." He looked at me earnestly and I understood what could not be said.

"I will come," I promised, and thought of his acerbic response. He was not one to bow to conventionality, not when it did not suit him; there was no disguise or pretence in him, it disgusted him. I remembered being the same, long ago when I was still a girl and free to do what I liked. "Fitzwilliam," I said, "please, do not — always remember who you are — do not ever become one of these fashionable gentlemen, all manners without substance, do not change."

"Oh! there is little enough danger of that," he said, smiling, then added more gravely, "I shall always be myself, I promise."

I was afraid, that when I married, I would simply become another society matron. Why did I marry Richard? I liked him well enough, he was relatively handsome, neither stupid nor vicious; but mostly, because he was one of us, he was grandmother's great-nephew, and with him I need never exchange loyalties. Loyalty to _his _family was loyalty to mine, and he was not demanding, he did not wish to carve a piece out of my heart for his own, and he did not care that the affection I felt for him as husband was far eclipsed by the intense devotion to grandmother and father and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles. I _was _afraid, though, even with him; that I would somehow become one-of-_them_, that there would somehow be a gulf between the _us_ of my family and myself as Eleanor Leigh.

It was, oddly, Aunt Anne who gave me comfort. Everyone had always said how much I resembled her, that it was like seeing her again, and because I truly believed Aunt Anne was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, I had always been proud of it. I've seen her portrait, the one my uncle very nearly went mad over when she died, and whoever painted it was a good artist; I could see myself in her face. She had always laughed in private too. And when she married, she did not become a _them_; she named her son for _us_ and if someone asked who she was, the response was always something to the effect of, "Oh, that tall proud woman? She's Lady Anne Fitzwil — Darcy, that is, she was married about five years ago." She had always been one of _us_, and her son as well — my cousin was more like my father's son than my own brothers. Later on, she had spent almost as much time with us as she had at Pemberley, she was very nearly another mother.

No, I was like Aunt Anne, as we had always said. I would not be estranged or absorbed, one of those dreadful nonentities floating on their husbands' arms. And now that I was married, I was free to be myself, and if I thought the opera dreadful, I would say so. If I liked, I could be another Aunt Catherine, offending wherever I went but too grand and powerful to be gainsaid. No, not Aunt Catherine; grandmother, who with her imperious well-bred ways, had terrified grown men into submission. But I would not pretend any more, I would be like I had been, like my cousin, like Aunt Anne, myself without disguise.

Richard could not understand why I insisted that my little cousin be made godfather to my children, when he was not even of age. _Fitzwilliam _could not understand; none of them ever did, except Elizabeth.


	5. Anne, Countess of Matlock

The past is beginning to blend together. I remember myself as I was, Lady Anne Leigh, young and handsome and clever; I could have had any man I wanted, I told my children, and depending upon the child in question they sighed or laughed. I did not tell them, not until they were older and knew what the world was like, how it had come about. There was secrecy and deceit and by the end nobody was fooled, so there was scandal as well; and I hated it, I hated it all. Except Edward. They say, my father said, that love turns to hate when that sort of thing happens, that mine would, but it did not, I could not imagine not loving Edward, I think I always did. How they could have thought we disliked one another, I have no idea.

And I thought it should go on and on, but Edward's father died and then Catherine, and within a year I was Lady Matlock, and our little Edward, he always called me _mother_. Of course I was — it was Catherine's idea to go to Venice, she was so desperate to give him a son, even another woman's son — and he had my eyes, but Catherine had been a Leigh as well, that was no proof. Edward's Catherine was _their _only child, and she was always an odd girl, I think she must have felt it, although I did my best. I was very fond of her when she was a child, I was so sorry for her; neither Edward nor Catherine seemed to notice her at all. But she was so _strange_, as she grew older, I could not truly warm to her, nor any of the others, except Anne.

_Anne_. My dearest Anne, she was always highly-strung, brilliant and temperamental; and I was afraid for her, because I did not believe any man could ever make her happy. It was only in the family that she could be herself, and her husband, he would force her into a picture frame, demand parts of her until she was broken. George Darcy was lost for her, at first, but he was exactly what I feared; loving but not truly comprehending. He did not understand Anne and he did not understand Fitzwilliam and they were miserable because of it.

No mother should live to see the death of her child, my aunt told me when I tried to comfort her, all those years ago, but it was only when Anne died that I truly understood. I had loved Henry, but he had always been wild, we knew something would eventually happen, his life would catch up with him; Anne, though, there was no expecting it. She was alive and healthy and holding her little girl, she was happy for the first time in years despite her estrangement from her husband, and then she was gone. Fitzwilliam and I, we had known and loved her best, and it was so incomprehensible, I could do nothing but hold my grandson as he sobbed in my arms. It was not real; she would walk out of that room, laughing a little at our stupidity — she would hold out her arms for Georgiana, who could just say 'mamma' — and she would ask Fitzwilliam and Ella to play for us — in just a few moments. She could not possibly be gone.

Darcy was grieved, not perhaps for Anne as she had been, but for what had been lost, and that I could understand; but what he said, and did, then, I could never forgive. I thought I had forgiven him when he died, but I was wrong. If Catherine had known, she would have murdered him with her parasol as we took leave; but Edward knew, and that was why he took Fitzwilliam that evening, just as Anne had done all those years before. There was always an emptiness, we felt her loss as we never had Catherine's or Henry's, and Ella and Fitzwilliam and Henry altogether could not fill it.

The years passed, though, and the grief grew fainter. Ella married my great-nephew — a good match, and they did not expect too much of one another — and the others grew older. Henry and Richard and Fitzwilliam, they were always thick as thieves, for all the opposition of character between them; and they remained so all their lives. Fitzwilliam and Henry would still switch places, and although they could not fool me, Elizabeth and I enjoyed ourselves laughing at everyone else. I never knew anyone who could laugh as Elizabeth did, not even Anne. I did not approve of her at first, I thought Fitzwilliam could and should have done better for himself — but they understood each other, as Darcy and Anne had never done, and I had never seen him so happy as when he was with her. Even had it been in my power, I could not have denied him that. She was not good enough for him, of course, but since no-one was, that hardly signified.

Georgiana and Ella gave me three great-grandchildren each, and Fitzwilliam four more. And although I loved them in their different ways, we all knew that Fitzwilliam's Anne was first in my heart, and I hope, I believe, that they understood.


	6. Henry Fitzwilliam

Ever since our memorable first meeting at the respective ages of four, five, and seven, we three had been inseparable. (It _looked _perfectly innocent, a small grey kitten of somewhat dubious breeding, with an innocent face and fluffy white paws, and we had not truly intended any harm to our baby cousin.) Richard, the eldest, was in trouble more often than not, running rampant over our grandfather's estate and charming the servants into giving him pastries. Fitzwilliam and I, _two peas in a pod_ in grandmother's phrase, followed his lead with admiration and reluctance, until we went into the schoolroom. There Fitzwilliam, who had never seemed more than moderately clever, outshone us all, easily winning over our tutor with his boundless curiosity.

Of course, our lives diverged as we grew older. Richard went into the army, I into law, and Fitzwilliam, who had been somewhat estranged from his father since my aunt's death, was summoned home to be master of Pemberley and father, at twenty years old, to little Georgiana. As soon as we could be spared, we joined him at Pemberley, to do what we could for him and our uncle. Never were we so shocked, as we were at the transformation that had taken place. He was no longer soft-spoken, even-tempered cousin Fitzwilliam, but Mr Darcy of Pemberley. His face, which I had so long regarded as simply a variation of mine, was suddenly unlike — pale and proud and grave. Richard and I blinked stupidly for a moment.

Then, when the servants were gone and it was just the three of us, he managed a small smile, and held out his hand. "I am glad you are here," he said, which, translated out of Fitzwilliam-speech, meant _Thank God you came, I thought I was going to run mad all by myself; what took you so long? _My uncle died by bits and pieces, while Fitzwilliam, who had always had a talent amounting to genius for what we diplomatically called 'administration', adapted to his newfound authority while we entertained Georgiana, kept our cousin properly fed, did what we could to help him, and eventually returned to our own lives.

Such as they were. As the relatively poor offspring of an earl's younger son, I was very much _persona non grata _among the ladies of town, even ladies my firstborn cousins would not so much as consider. Richard, with his uniform and charm (although regrettably his mother's bland looks), did far better socially, eventually marrying an admiral's niece with twenty thousand pounds to her name. I never liked her, although she was lovely and witty and charming and everything desirable. I suspect it was largely due to her habit of flirting with the various Fitzwilliam cousins when her husband was not present. My dislike was nothing, however, to my cousin's — the loathing between Elizabeth Darcy and Mary Fitzwilliam remained the stuff of legend long after they reconciled.

Richard died first. They had no children, and despite her ways, Mary was devastated. I was never so shocked in my life as when Elizabeth invited her to stay at Pemberley until she had somewhat recovered. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam, who to all appearances led a charmed life, had four perfectly well-behaved children, two boys and two girls, with their father's looks and their mother's charm, all of whom married well. It was only Richard and I, of all the family, who saw beneath the surface — that the marriage of two such people could never be completely simple and comfortable, that there were trials and struggles just like ordinary people, for all that they were not themselves ordinary. But they were never like my parents, who were together only long enough to create two children, nor like his, who could hardly bear the sight of one another. Elizabeth was passionately devoted to Fitzwilliam, it stood out a mile; and for all his wealth and brilliance, the only time in our lives that I envied my cousin was when I first set eyes on them together.


	7. George Wickham

She was beautiful.

She had always been so, of course; not flamboyant, like Betsey, nor quietly handsome, like Jane and Cathy. No, she was her father's daughter, and with the haughtily well-bred manners and sharply critical eye came the sort of beauty that turned heads when she walked into a room. Yet it had never mattered before. Why should I care about my proud cousin? She certainly did not care for me. She might quarrel with Alexander or Betsey or Peter, but I, I was beneath contempt. I did not care, I knew her sort well enough, I knew that _I _was greatly her superior in all the ways that mattered. I had charm and cleverness and knowledge of the world, but stripped of her beauty and fortune, _she_ had nothing of consequence.

Yet I could scarcely keep my eyes off her. Pride, temper, a sharp scathing wit; what were these to the charms of a pleasing, womanly figure, the white slope of shoulders and neck? I was no better than those fops who hung on her every word, for all that I concealed it better. I felt I had been struck a blow when I first set eyes on her this time, standing tall between her brothers. I had once stared directly into the sun, because Mrs Bingley had told me not to. It was much the same feeling. I was dazzled by her, and although I thought it would pass, as so many infatuations had, it only grew worse. I found myself admiring not only the fine slender lines of her hands but the strength in them — her eyes allured me not merely for the lustrous colour or heavy lashes, but the flash of spirit and intelligence.

More than one woman had imagined herself in love with me, I had taken advantage of it, I had enjoyed doing so. I was my father's child as much as she. I had seen love, but I had never known it. And yet — here I was, mad with it. She looked at me often, and I could easily detect that there was more than disdain in her gaze, a softness. She knew. Nothing mattered, as long as _she _was here, with me. Not that my sister had caught William Collins and would be mistress of Longbourn, nor that father had vanished again; nor that hers was not the only pair of brilliant eyes frequently observing me.

Still, there _was _disdain, there _was _derision, and I was determined to annihilate it. Surely I, with my knowledge and experience, could win over the heart of a sheltered girl? I took her for walks, admired Pemberley, entertained her small sister, read her favourite books with enthusiasm and interest. I confessed my tragic past, apologised for the sins of my parents, spoke feelingly of how insurmountable the gap between us was. I had never cared for poetry but the animation with which she defended Byron and Keats enticed me into spending hours in the library. My young cousin Elizabeth was everything charming in my mind as well as hers. Pemberley was, of course, splendid. My parents were two of the most worthless people in England and my misfortune in being born to them was incalculable. And so on and so forth.

I had always disliked Mrs Darcy, yet I discovered, as her daughter seduced me, that it was quite groundless. She was not malicious, but witty; not pretentious, but content. She was not flaunting her peculiar relationship with her husband, she was as fascinated by him as I was by _her_. That my vivacious aunt should love this severe, austere man seemed vastly unlikely, almost as unlikely as the equally austere Miss Darcy of Pemberley enchanting _me_. Beauty and wealth could only go so far. I was her nephew and I had never understood that before.

I had often boasted that I feared nothing, neither poverty nor beast nor man; but that was not strictly accurate. For as long as I could remember, I had been intensely afraid of my uncle, Mr Darcy. I didn't know why. There was none of the quick violence of my own father; my uncle was deliberate and remote. He was invariably quiet and soft-spoken; I had never heard him raise his voice. His temper was even and not easily roused. My current prosperity was due in great measure to his generosity. Yet I still had to restrain myself from jumping if he unexpectedly appeared near me. I could not conceive of how easily my cousins approached him, even little Elizabeth who frequently clambered up on his lap. My childhood awe of this tall imposing man had waned over time, but in its place came a dread I could not comprehend.

Even as she pressed her hand against her father's cheek and embraced him, she flinched from me. When we were together, she was cold and pale; but I once caught a glimpse of her, vibrant and flushed, as father and daughter eagerly dissected his newest acquisition. It was as if I had never seen the real Anne, but only a hint of a shadow, and there would never be anything else.

I was summoned to Mr Darcy's study towards the end of my visit. I passed a stranger, a young man of about my own age, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a familiar aristocratic cast to his features. A nauseatingly poised and wholesome creature, he nodded coolly to me as I entered my uncle's room. I met Mr Darcy's piercing blue eyes — _her_ eyes — unsteadily, the dread coiling in my throat.

Without preamble, he said: "She is not for you."


	8. Lord Stephen Deincourt

She was beautiful. 

Anne had always been beautiful and, at nineteen, was very much as she had always been. She had grown up, of course, but in manner and temper and character she had not changed at all. And I loved her as I always had. We had been friends as well as cousins, all our lives. I loved Pemberley, in a way that I could not love my own ancestral estate, for all its grandeur. Pemberley was not so splendid, not so grand; but there was a peculiar quality that I never found elsewhere, more than elegance, an almost otherworldliness. For me, it was like a slice of paradise. I could escape, for a fortnight or six weeks or three months, however long I needed; and it was as if time stopped. I could recover, I could gather my reserves, and then I could face the world again. And in a strange way, Anne and my uncle Darcy and Pemberley had all become intertwined in my mind, I could not think of them separately.

At first I assured myself that what I felt was proper fraternal pride and fondness. She was my mother's niece. She reminded me strongly of my sisters, particularly Georgiana. The jealousy I felt of the fops and dandies who courted her was the natural resentment of a neglected brother. She would dance the night away with _them _and then confide to me that she hated dancing and only wanted to go home and where was her father? It was only at the Cartwrights' ball that I suffered a revelation of sorts.

I was jealous of _Charles Bingley_. He was not even present, but she talked about him a great deal;—she was very fond of her obliging, indiscriminately friendly Bingley relations. Certainly they were a pleasant surprise considering their situation in life, but frankly I could only bear so much cloying sweetness before becoming decidedly ill-tempered. Nothing is so exhausting as an inexhaustible surfeit of good-will. Charles was handsome, he was agreeable, he _understood_ — he did not expect scintillating conversation but simply kept other men from forcing her to dance when she did not wish to. In _my_ considered opinion, Charles Bingley was a vapid, spineless bore. What right did he have to her good opinion? She was one of the most critical, perceptive people I had ever met and yet she could admire the likes of Charles Bingley. It boggled the mind.

The attachment between father and daughter was such that where one was found, the other was certain to be nearby. Sure enough, after Anne suffered herself to be led away by the Cartwright heir, my uncle seemed to materialise behind me, with some dry, clever remark and a decidedly forbidding expression. Then he, for no apparent reason, invited me to stay at Pemberley, an invitation I gladly accepted.

"I should warn you," he added casually, "Mrs Darcy's nephew is also paying a visit. You may remember him — George Wickham." Was it just my imagination, or was there something like distaste in his eyes as he spoke?

"I remember," I said tersely. "I understand he has made something of himself, to the astonishment of all."

"Yes," said Mr Darcy, austere and remote as ever. As my mother's son, however, I was more than accustomed to enigmatic reserve, and smiled faintly at him. "He seems to be quite taken with Anne."

I could feel blood pounding in my ears, and hardly recognised my own voice when I heard it. "I beg your pardon? I was not aware he was on speaking terms with Anne."

"He seems to have reconciled himself to her eccentricities. I have nothing to complain of in his conduct." My uncle looked into the ballroom, perfectly still and somehow apart, his blue eyes intent on the stately whirl of dancers. "He also seems to sincerely regret his parents' — deficiencies."

"Is he still terrified of you, sir?" I grinned up at my uncle.

"I rather think so." He seemed faintly pleased. I had never in my life had cause to fear him. "Anne is sensible, of course."

"Of course." _Even if she is infatuated with Charles Bingley._

"I would also enjoy your company. I am starting to feel a sneaking sympathy for my late father-in-law."

"I understand, sir." A vivid mental picture flashed into my mind, of that man touching Anne, my beautiful, pristine cousin. I looked at Anne, at my uncle, thought of Pemberley, and once again failed to convince myself that they were not all part and parcel of the same thing. I thought of Eden and Eve spoilt by the serpent, of pride fallen — and somehow that seemed the worst of all. "I would be honoured to stay at Pemberley, sir, as long as you will have me."

"Thank you."


	9. Miss Anne Darcy

I had never been uncomfortable at home. Pemberley was always a haven for us, papa and I. Mother loved it, but she did not _need _it as we did. I was safe and protected and loved, it was full of memories. Although the building only dated back to Queen Elizabeth's reign, my family had lived on this land for over seven hundred and fifty years. Sometimes I imagined that I could feel it, seven centuries' worth of Darcy births, weddings, and deaths, sinking into the land. Papa always said that he belonged more to Pemberley than it did to him, and he was right — he always seemed somehow displaced when he was not here.

But since my cousin, George Wickham, had come, everything was different. Even Pemberley was different. Somehow everywhere I turned, _he _was there. The worst was late one evening, when I could not sleep. I put on my dressing gown and went into the library to find something to read, and _he _was there. Of course he had every right to be there, but the way he looked at me — it was odd, because his colouring was fair, that he should seem so dark, intense and brooding, like the hero of a novel. For the first time in my entire life, I was at Pemberley, and I was afraid.

If felt like everywhere I went, he followed. And yet there was no reason to fear him. He was always gentlemanly and courteous — remarkably so, since we had loathed each other through childhood. We were no longer children, but we had not become different people. My mother told me, once, that after she married my father, she discovered that people altered but they did not change, they could not, they were always themselves. Logically, George must be George still, unless the George I had known in childhood was not the real one. I wish I could know what mother really thought, but he was her nephew; I could not ask her.

I was sorry for him, of course. To be the child of my aunt and uncle Wickham! I would not wish that fate on my worst enemy, let alone a fairly pleasant cousin. And he truly seemed to regret them, and the way he had been raised. I could not know for certain — my parents were always very strict about making judgments of people, mother especially. So I did not dare say anything.

Still, I tried to avoid him, as circumspectly as I could. He always found me. Places that had once been sacrosanct, the library where Edward and Alexander and I had played as children, the portrait hall where the Darcys from papa on back, through generations uncounted, stared down at us, even the bridge over the stream that led into the woods, where mother had once walked and desperately wondered what my father was thinking of her — always George was there, I could not escape him. I was afraid that someone would see; I had always been very good at hiding my feelings — _too_ good, mother said — but they knew me, and always I had to pretend. I did not want them to see that I was afraid, I who had always been so fearless, and what was I afraid of? My gentlemanly, if low-born, cousin, who had never done or said anything remotely offensive, and was nothing more than properly attentive to me. No, they must not know.

The only time I was safe was at evening, in the library, with papa. Mother usually went to bed early, but he did not need so much sleep, and spent the time poring over estate matters or some new acquisition. Ever since I was very small, I would join him for as long as I could. There was no doubt that he loved all of us, but we all knew there was a special bond between my father and I. Mother used to say that she had done little more than give me birth, everything else was papa. When I was a very small girl, I would toddle over to his desk, and tug at his trousers, and he would swing me into his arms and set me on his lap while he did whatever he did. Then, when I was older, I would ask questions about this matter or that, and he always gave me some sort of explanation, which grew longer and more involved as I grew older. He loved books, my father, and ideas, what he could construct in his mind — my mother used to laugh at him and say, "Fitzwilliam, come back to us" when he had not so much as stirred from his chair — and I either learnt or inherited it from him.

Our evenings were inviolable, even George knew that much. Only once, as papa and I gazed at the intricate illustrations of a medieval book, did he intrude; he had passed, and looked in the door at us, and papa nodded briefly and curtly, clearly dismissing him. The door was shut and I went back to admiring the book in safety. Yet I felt my composure and manners growing more brittle by the day, as George paid me determined, relentless attention. Papa asked me, several times, if I minded, if it bothered me at all — he would put a stop to it if I still disliked him, but I assured him, I was quite content, George knew nothing could come of it, so there was no danger. He did not believe me, I think, although I had never in my life lied or indeed concealed anything from him. For the first time there was a distance between us, a distance created by George Wickham, and in that moment I hated him for it.

There was a clearing beyond the coppice-wood, well off the main path, which our family had discovered on a long-ago walk through the park. The boys were free to wander where they would and forgot it, but often my father or I would escape company for a few hours of blessed solitude. I had feared to come lately, for I did not wish this last sanctuary to be discovered, but George, whose attention was beginning to be more equitably distributed between the three ladies, was occupied with mother. I managed to slip away. Yet as I approached, desperate for some relief, I caught sight of a man's tall figure seated quite familiarly against the roots of one of the trees. Somehow it was the last straw, that he should have found me even _here_, and I gave a small cry, feeling tears roll unheeded down my cheeks —

"Anne? My dearest Anne, what is wrong? Are you unwell?" The voice was lighter and deeper, the figure leaner and taller, and as he approached I clearly made out the familiar features. Quite beyond endurance, I ran into the clearing and flung myself, sobbing, into my father's arms.

_**A/N: **Well, here's the lady herself. I thought she deserved a turn, and she turned out to be quite overwrought, the poor thing — if such an expression can be used of someone like her. As you can see, she is very proud, in this case much to her personal detriment, but a 'nice wholesome girl' despite her looks._


	10. Cecily Fitzwilliam

There was a peculiar combination of pride and joy and wistfulness on her face as she watched my cousin swing _her _cousin into the air. It was not too difficult to guess where her thoughts had gone. Fitzwilliam was unmistakable even from this perspective, but the slight, dark-haired child in his arms, her face turned away from us, could have been anyone: our own Amelia, another Miss Bennet (not that they needed one), the small Miss Gardiner that she was — or perhaps, as she was clearly imagining, the next Miss Darcy.

"He is very fond of children," I remarked, and Miss Elizabeth started. She managed a guarded smile. Our family's welcome had been perfectly civil, most of us even cordial, but no more. There was a distrust, disapproval, even dislike, that was only thinly veiled beneath habitual good manners. For my part I liked her. At first, admittedly it was nothing more than a combination of pity and approval for her good taste in loving my cousin; but as I observed her, I understood Fitzwilliam's rational as well as passionate regard for this young lady from the country.

"Miss Fitzwilliam."

"Miss Bennet. Would it be very inconvenient if I intruded upon your solitude for a few minutes, until my cousin comes? I have enough Bertram in me to make conversation with tolerable ease."

"Oh, of course not," said she, and that settled, I walked over to the window she stood by.

"I have never been to Hertfordshire before, it is a lovely country."

"Thank you," Miss Elizabeth said, looking faintly surprised. "I have a great fondness for it myself;—although a rather greater one for Derbyshire as of late."

I smiled at her. "I hope you do. It is — a rather wilder sort of beauty, don't you think? And yet ordered."

"Yes," said Miss Elizabeth simply, "I quite agree. Have you spent much time there? I thought I understood you were from Yorkshire, Miss Fitzwilliam."

"Lord Matlock and Lady Anne were very close. We spent a great deal of time at Pemberley when I was young, until my aunt died."

This expression was easier to read — clear curiosity. "Of course," she murmured. "Mr Darcy does not speak of Lady Anne. Was she very like her brother?"

"Well, we are all quite alike," I said frankly. "Oh, you mean in character? I was only nine when she died, but from what I remember and have heard, she was very proud and reserved, even haughty, and yet, there was a kind of sweetness to her; and there was brilliance as well, she was so very clever. _We _loved her, but she was a difficult woman to love and an even more difficult one to understand. Yes, I think she was quite like my uncle, particularly when he was younger. My cousin favours them both a great deal."

"Somehow," said Miss Elizabeth, "I had thought he was like Mr Darcy."

"He has something of his father's character," I agreed. "It was my uncle who taught him — a great many things. He could never tolerate injustice or deceit, either, and he had — I don't know, ideals, dreams, but he was not _practical_. I always liked him, though. He had the most charming manners, very open and engaging, and quite lively. Grandmother says he was a bit wild in his youth, although he settled down once he married my aunt."

"They must have an interesting pair," Miss Elizabeth observed.

"They were not very well-suited, I understand," I said. I gave her a sideways look. From the first we had not _wished _to like her, this unknown girl from the country who had somehow managed to capture my cousin's invulnerable heart. He could never do anything by halves, and he had fallen in love with the same earnest fervour he applied to all his concerns, whether of the heart or the pocket. We were afraid for him. Fitzwilliam was so detached, he almost seemed to inhabit a different world from the rest of us. There was a need to shield and protect him, as they had his mother before him, and we all feared for him the same fate that had befallen _her_.

"It is not that we dislike _you_, Miss Bennet," I said, deciding quickly. She loved him and she deserved to understand, for she would be part of our family soon enough. "We _wished_ someone of our own rank for him, I confess it, but that is not all."

"You wished to see him marry within the family?" she asked shrewdly. I hesitated.

"Fitzwilliam is — he is not — yes, we did, we wished that. But not because, not how you are thinking." I took a deep breath. "My aunt and uncle, the Darcys, I said they were not well-suited, but it was more than that. They were desperately unhappy together. They were perhaps infatuated at first, particularly _him_, but they grew to hate each other by the end. My aunt, I think she was _glad _to die, she was miserable and tired and — it was dreadful, Miss Bennet, and Fitzwilliam is _so _like her. There are no portraits of her at Pemberley, they are all at Houghton and the house in town, because my uncle, when she died, he went a little bit mad, he could not bear to see her face." I looked at her steadily. "Fitzwilliam is not like other men, other _people_, you know that, Miss Bennet."

Her rather sharp features softened noticably. "Yes," she said, "I know."

"He is very strong and confident and clever, but he needs looking after. They, we, were terribly afraid that you would not understand, that you would be like my uncle — you are very like him, in some ways. My uncle and grandmother especially, they simply adored her, and they were devastated when she died. They loved Fitzwilliam all the more because of it, but Mr Darcy could not love him, he could hardly bear to look at him. It is only, we do not wish to see him hurt or broken. And we resented you, because he has always been — _there_, very devoted and loyal and reliable; you know how he is. We were afraid you would take him from us." I looked at her plaintively. "The others still are afraid, except Richard and, perhaps, Henry."

Miss Elizabeth sighed. I could not read her thoughts; perhaps it had been unwise, and imprudent — if Fitzwilliam had wanted her to know, surely he would have told her. But perhaps, he had simply put it out of his mind for too long, and he would not speak of it, not even to her, and she needed to know what had made him the man he was today, who she had fallen in love with. And I wished for myself that she could understand _us._

"When I was at Pemberley, I hardly recognised him. I thought he had changed, transformed, into someone new. I did not dare fall in love with him. We were too different, he would not understand me, I could not give him what he deserved."

"I have never noticed any great change," I said indifferently.

"No," she said, "I understand that now." She smiled with a sudden brilliance, that single look telling me more than hours of painstaking observation had. "Thank you, Miss Fitzwilliam. I would never dream of taking Fitzwilliam — of trying to take him — from those that love and appreciate him." She laughed. "They are few enough." I was comforted. It was the first time I had heard her use his Christian name, in public or private.

"Please, Miss Bennet," I said, clasping her hand, "I hope we shall be friends as well as cousins, whatever the rest of us think. My family calls me 'Cecily.' "

"It is an easy enough name, I daresay I could manage it," she said lightly; "and may I hope that 'Lizzy' is not too great a trial for you?"

I laughed. "You may, Lizzy."


	11. John Wickham

"Aunt Elizabeth sent some money for your wedding clothes." John handed the letter and enclosure to his sister.

Elizabeth Wickham smiled. "I _told _mamma I would need wedding clothes, and she told me that _she _hadn't had any and her wedding had been perfectly fine."

Seventeen-year-old Frances snorted. "Her wedding? She was married at St Clement's with nobody but the Gardiners and my uncle Darcy. No clothes, no attendants, no anything. It was hardly a proper wedding at all, and they had been _living in sin _for weeks before!"

"Fanny, please!" John looked up from his book and fervently wished for his brother's return. Betsey was the eldest but no good at all, and so the burden of responsibility fell to him. He would much rather read his beloved books and practise sermon-making, but his ordination was still some years away. If only he could _go _somewhere, as George had; but he hadn't George's active temperament. He only wished to be left in peace, away from the chaos that was his family. Someday . . .

Fanny subsided, and John turned to the next letter, this one from George himself. His brow furrowed as he read. "Betsey," he said, "have you heard from George lately?"

Betsey reluctantly turned away from the mirror and stared wide-eyed at him for a moment. "I didn't read very much," she said. "It was all _Anne_-this, and _Anne_-that, really very dull. I can't imagine what he sees in her."

John uneasily repressed his first thoughts as unworthy of a future clergyman. _He _could perfectly imagine what George saw in Anne — beauty, wealth, spirit, and above all, the lure of the forbidden fruit. Yet their tempers were so dissimilar. She was not at all the sort of woman George was usually attracted to — she was elegant, aloof, haughty, every inch a Miss Darcy; even her striking beauty was of a distant, remote sort. Besides, even were he to win their austere cousin over — highly unlikely, in John's opinion — no attachment between them would be tolerated. John looked again at his letter.

"What is he _thinking_?"

"Probably s'not," slurred Thomas, sprawled across a chair and, per the usual, shamefully intoxicated. At least he was home. John had never been drunk in his life and had no intentions of ever being so. George he had admired as a child but once able to see past his brother's civilised veneer, he'd been determined to go his own way. Into the Church. "Good old George," mumbled Tom. "Always knows what he wants."

_Yes, _thought John, _he knows what he wants. And he does anything to get it. Father'd be proud of him if he could even remember that he **had** a son._

"Fanny, put him to bed, will you?"

"But John," whined Fanny, "it's Susan's turn this evening!"

"Susan's asleep. She's been helping Betsey. Do as I say, Fanny."

"I don't want to!"

John set both letter and Bible down. "I don't really care, Fanny. Shall I have to tell mother not to give you any allowance for bonnets this month?"

Fanny sulked but obeyed, and John went to his desk — really his father's, but he was the only one who used it. _He _knew his brother, and Anne, she was a nice girl, she deserved better than this. And John himself would never have been able to pursue his dreams and leave this place behind, someday not too far away, were it not for Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy. He bit his lip.

. . . _If I may be so bold, sir, I do not believe George's continued presence at Pemberley is beneficial to anyone concerned, particularly Miss Darcy. My sister, it seems, is in desperate need of her brother's support as her wedding approaches. _

John made a mental note to inform Betsey of her great misery at George's absence. She hummed a little as she admired her reflection.

_I remain your respectful nephew,_

_John Wickham_

_**A/N: **Flashing forward into 1835 for another young Wickham vignette. He's really the cream of this particular crop — well, and perhaps Susan, but her growth is a little — stunted. She's fifteen but more like twelve or thirteen. Betsey is as unlike her namesake as can be conceivably imagined._

_**June W: **Well, she'll need it. The only people in the family who aren't painfully reserved are Richard and Cecily, and perhaps Henry (but not really), so aside from their aversion to her, it's a lot to deal with. You're welcome._

_**Kyra3: **She **is** there! If the chart you're using is the one under "George Wickham", Cecily is the very last person there. If you're using the complex numeric list, she's Character #14, Miss Cecilia Fitzwilliam. But I'm glad it was easy to follow. It's a good sign that I'm improving, when you don't need charts (so much)! I'm also glad you liked the interaction between Cecily and Elizabeth. _

_**Teresa:** You're welcome. Elizabeth is a difficult one for me, to be honest. I've written a few things from her perspective, but I don't consider them quite up to my usual standard, so they live a secluded existence at the back of a metaphorical drawer. Cecily, with her cousin the colonel, is probably the most friendly, outgoing person in the family — like her father in that respect, although she would cringe at the comparison. I'm glad you like her, so do I. So you're getting the Fitzwilliams? I'm glad. Yes, an enormous portion of their aversion to Elizabeth is fear — lots of it. There is fear **for** him, because of his parents' disastrous marriage and the parallel with that they see in his attachment to Elizabeth, and then fear that she will not be able to take proper care of him (although she can and does; in P&P we see her shielding and protecting him during their engagement), and less unselfishly, fear on their own behalf, that by marrying not only outside the "immediate" family but out of their sphere of influence, they will not be able to rely upon him as they always have — his presence of mind, composure, and even temper make him the best sort of person to look to in any crisis, and they have gotten into the habbit of doing so even when there isn't one. There is snobbery as well, but it's a snobbery based on loyalty and solidarity. We see elements of this with Ella, who is terrified of being lost to her family and subsumed in her husband's, and finds an unlikely comfort in the married life of her aunt. I'm glad you can access the stories once again. I might put these elsewhere if I ever bother to learn HTML. You're welcome for the author notes. I just start rambling and go on from there. I'm very grateful for your input, I know the characters but often that rather blinds me to what might be obvious to someone else. I'm also glad you like Anne, who as I said is my first OC (and favourite, I must confess). Yes, her brothers and sister will enter into the story at some time, particularly her eldest brother Edward._


	12. Miss Amelia Gardiner

At first, we were shy of this great tall man who had come on business with papa, but he who was so distant and reserved in public had no difficulty in making himself agreeable to three children. He talked away, as if we were only small and innocent adults, deeply flattering Margaret and entertaining Edward. We knew he was a good man, because our parents liked him.

The second time he came, we ran to him right away. Papa remonstrated with us, but Mr Darcy smiled and said he didn't mind, and when I held up my arms he picked me up. He was the tallest person I had ever seen, and I loved the feel of the air swishing past and the ground so far beneath me. I knew he would not drop me. I did not like Mr Wickham, who was marrying cousin Lydia, because I never knew whether he would drop me or not, and he talked to us like we were kittens or mice, not people.

When Mr Darcy came for dinner that last time, I ran ahead to meet him. Margaret and Edward were sleeping, and papa had some business with Mr Haggerston, and John was sick so mamma had to take try and put him to sleep so he could get better.

"I am to entertain you," I informed him, and he smiled and said he did not doubt but that I would do an exemplary job of it. Working my way through Mr Darcy's words was often an enjoyable challenge. He used a great many of them. "Do you have any children?" I asked. Mamma and papa did not let me ask questions, they said it was not polite, but I was very curious.

"No," he said, with a rather peculiar look. "I am not married."

"You have to be married to have children?"

He winced. "Usually, yes," he said.

"Is cousin Lydia going to have a child? Is that why she is marrying Mr Wickham?"

He stared at me for a moment. "No, she — she loves him," he said. By the expression on his face, he found this concept as bewildering as I did.

"That's very strange," I said. "I do not like Mr Wickham. Do you like Mr Wickham?"

"I — no, not particularly," he said, "but it's not polite to say so."

I pouted, and he bit his lip, looking away. "It's not polite to say most things. That's not fair. I don't like Mr Wickham 'cause he's bad, I heard my papa say so, and you shouldn't like bad people, should you? My cousin Jane says you don't know if people are really bad because there's too much you don't know, but if papa says that Mr Wickham is bad it must be so because he is never wrong."

Mr Darcy smiled again. "Sometimes you cannot say all you think, Miss Gardiner, even if it is true."

"I am not Miss Gardiner," I said immediately, "that's Margaret, I'm Amelia. Like cousin Jane is Miss Bennet but Lizzy is Elizabeth."

He straightened, his hands laced quite tightly together. "Miss Amelia, then;—do you know, you are very like my Amelia?"

"You said you don't have any children because you aren't married, sir," I said primly.

"My Amelia is my god-daughter and cousin, not my own daughter," he informed me. "She is just about your age, I think."

"I am six years old," I said proudly. "Is your Amelia as tall as I am?"

"She is perhaps a little taller, although she is only five," he answered.

"Oh. Is she pretty like my cousins?"

"I believe so," he said.

I considered this. "Does she look like you?"

"Yes."

"Then she must be very pretty," I said decisively. Mr Darcy blushed and dipped his head slightly. "My aunt Bennet says that if you're pretty you have rich gentlemen coming to see you, like Mr Bingley and cousin Jane, although he went away" (Mr Darcy seemed rather paler than usual at this) "— so your Amelia will have lots of gentlemen. Do you think I shall have that many?"

"I am certain you shall," he assured me gravely, and I would not find out until much later that the little girl I always thought of as _Mr Darcy's Amelia _was a duke's daughter with fifty thousand pounds to her name.

I clapped my hands. "That shall be nice, but I do not wish to be married just now."

"That is very wise of you."

I blinked at him. "Do you not wish to be married?"

"I — I — " For the first time, he seemed utterly at a loss for words. "I do not wish to be married to just _anyone_," he said, after a moment's awkward silence.

"Mamma says you and cousin Lizzy are going to be married sometime, I heard papa asking if she knew if Lizzy understood you and she said she thought you did but it was impossible to be sure."

Mr Darcy started, turned red, then white, then red again. "Don't you like cousin Lizzy?" I asked.

"I — I do," he said softly, and just then, mamma and papa walked in to the parlour, both looking just as pleased as they had when the Wickhams had finally left, which said a great deal about how much they liked Mr Darcy.

"Mr Darcy, I hope we have not kept you waiting too long," mamma said, and he instantly got to his feet.

"Not at all," he said, smiling at me. He smiled a great deal now that Mr Wickham and Lydia were gone, but I had never seen or heard him laugh. Perhaps he would do so more when he married Lizzy, I thought, because one could not help but laugh when Lizzy was there.

_**A/N: **Back to 1812, we have the second Gardiner child, Miss Amelia Gardiner. Another one I've had in my head for awhile, although in P&P we don't even know her name and she is simply part of the collective Gardiner children._

_**Kyra3: **I'm glad you like John. I always had the idea of a "good" Wickham to go with the various unpleasant ones, and had assigned that place to George — but he went his own way so I moved on down to John, who became a clergyman to boot. He's really the best of the Wickham lot._

**_June W:_** _June, please, please, **please** do not use the genealogies in Chapter 11! Like much of LtF, they are no longer accurate. I did list the Wickham children with the other Gardiner descendants in Chapter 8 ("Lord Stephen Deincourt"), but here they are again, in order of age: Elizabeth "Betsey" (middle name Lydia), George, John, Thomas "Tom", Frances "Fanny", Susan, and William. The most up-to-date charts are the Fitzwilliam chart in Chapter 7 ("George Wickham") and the Gardiner one in Chapter 8. The written-out one at the beginning of Chapter 8 only goes up until that chapter. I may cut out the A/Ns and simply include the two charts and the explication at the end of the last vignette once I'm done, for reading convenience. Oh, they should get John's letter quickly, and relieve Anne's suffering for a time (**evil cackle**)._

_**Teresa: **Yes, poor John. He's not a major character but there's a story there. Tom is — let me check my birthdates — eighteen. So not a child or adolescent but a very young man. Considering his background, hardly surprising. Yes, OC is "original character." Sorry, I have a habit of acronym-making. I hope this update is quick enough for you!_


	13. Edward Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock

"Fitzwilliam," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be offering for this girl?"

Lord Matlock had long recognised the similarity of temper and mind, as well as countenance, between his nephew and himself, more pronounced than with any of his own children. He had never been less than perfectly forthright and honest with him, and he had no intentions of starting now. It was inconceivable that Fitzwilliam, of all the children, should have entangled himself in this manner — and yet it had happened!

"No, I am not," Fitzwilliam replied, literal-minded as always. "I know what I am about, sir."

The earl pressed his fingertips against his forehead, feeling a headache brewing. "I am sure your Miss Bennet is everything amiable and lovely," he began, as tactfully as he could, "but that is not enough, Fitzwilliam."

"I am aware of that," Fitzwilliam said quietly; "but Miss Bennet is not — she is not what you think." With a faint smile, he added, "Your phrase would better suit her elder sister."

Lord Matlock raised his brows. "You are determined to have her, I suppose."

His nephew blinked. "Those are not quite the words I would choose," he said reluctantly, "but I am determined, yes. My dear uncle, surely you do not think I would be caught by a common fortune-hunter, however beautiful, _now_?"

"I do not know what to think, Fitzwilliam," Lord Matlock replied sternly. "You have been very peculiar, very unlike yourself, this entire year. Tell me about your Miss Bennet. _Is_ she very beautiful?"

"I cannot say," Fitzwilliam said neutrally. "I do not believe anyone else would find her so. _I _did not, at first."

The earl sighed. "If she is neither stunningly beautiful nor charming, with no fortune, family, or connections, what qualities has she to recommend herself?"

"I have not the time to ennumerate them all," said Fitzwilliam, smiling.

"Just a few will suffice," the earl replied dryly.

"She is clever, friendly, witty, and she has — integrity. She loves her sister and she will be able to love mine." With a peculiar look, rather like that of a bewildered but contented child, he added quietly, "She loves _me_."

The outcome had been inevitable. Almost, it seemed a script that had been written before either walked into the study. Lord Matlock could not fight the feeling of having somehow experienced this all before, nor the dread overshadowing him as he looked at his nephew's face, the familiar features set in obstinate lines, the expression just this side of defiance. "Then she may deserve you," he said reluctantly, not quite convincing himself, let alone his sceptical nephew. "When they come to London, I hope you will introduce her to us."

"I shall. I hope you will give her the welcome my fiancée deserves." The warning was clear. He would tolerate no disrespect to the young lady. He had already thrown off Lady Catherine. Infatuated as he was, he might very well do the same to all but Richard, Henry, and Georgiana. Lord Matlock sighed once more.

"Of course," he said morosely. "Whatever I may think of Miss Bennet myself, I have no intention of encouraging talk outside the family regarding your choice."

He had never seen his nephew's eyes so cold, and wondered why.


	14. Jane Bennet

_**A/N: **You've probably already read this. It just occurred to me that it fits better here._

"Why did you tell me?" Jane asked, after what felt like a very long silence. She did not dare look at him.

"I did not believe it right to keep such a thing from you, now that you are to be my sister."

_Now that you are to be my sister. _Jane drew a deep, shaking breath. Somehow, that was the worst part. Elizabeth had _known_, had known since April, and had never said anything. Why? It would have been painful to hear of him, but nothing to the anguish of unrequited love. She would have known that he had truly loved her, that she had not mistaken him; at that time, nothing could have eased her heart more. How could Elizabeth have kept this from her? Elizabeth, her _sister_, who knew her better than anyone, how could she not have understood? Bingley she could excuse, he did not know her so well, a newly-accepted lover was naturally cautious and fearful of saying the wrong thing, but _Elizabeth_? That Mr Darcy should see what Elizabeth could not, Mr Darcy who scarcely knew her, was somehow frightening and terrible; she felt as if she had been stripped bare, that she no longer knew herself or anyone else.

She knew not what to think; but then Mr Darcy was speaking again. "I — I do not have the words to express how very sorry I am, Miss Bennet, for the pain I have caused you, and Bingley."

Jane looked up at him blankly. He was quite pale, his eyes fixed on the ground, yet stood as confidently upright as always. She envied him that. "You truly believed me to be indifferent?" she asked wonderingly.

"I did."

"Mr Bingley believed me to be indifferent also?"

He hesitated. "He did not believe your feelings to equal his, but no, he did not believe you wholly indifferent until _I_ persuaded him."

Jane's brow furrowed.

"Miss Bennet, there was never — I never had any objections to _you_, nor did his sisters. I feared for my friend's happiness. I felt that in marrying so disadvantageously, he would be made unhappy once his infatuation with you faded." His voice caught slightly as he added, "I did not wish him to give his affections where they would not be returned. Regardless of my intentions, however, it was wrong of me and I apologise."

She was fumbling for purchase, and somehow it was the distant pain in his voice that steadied her. It had not been that Elizabeth had so greatly misunderstood _her_. She could not know, she could not understand, because although she too had had her share of suffering, she had been spared _this. _Poets spoke of _unrequited love_, the greatest of mortal afflictions, but words on a page were never the same thing, and she could not understand until she had experienced it, and Elizabeth never would. And Mr Darcy understood, because he _knew_, and because in this strange way they were alike. Elizabeth and Bingley would make the best of things, would heal and continue on, but _they_, they could not, they could not forget and did not wish to, for there was a joy and pleasure in loving so deeply and intensely and hopelessly, as well as the pain and fear that it could never be returned in equal measure.

It had all turned out well, after all. And if she was a little uncertain about her intended's strength of will, _she _would guide him, and she had never seen him influenced in such a way by anyone other than herself and Mr Darcy, and that was all for the best. She would speak to Elizabeth, try to make her understand, for although she did not wholly understand the man that would be her brother, she knew that Elizabeth might very well attempt to protect him by keeping things from him, and given their history and his character, that would not go over well at all. And as for Mr Darcy himself —

"When Lizzy told me that you were engaged," Jane said, "I — please forgive me — I did not believe she cared for you." Uncertain, she waited.

"I could hardly believe it myself," said Mr Darcy calmly, and she found the courage to go on.

"I tried to persuade her against marrying you, unless she felt sincere affection." Jane looked up, to see how he took her words, and was reassured by his faint smile.

"It is not the same, Miss Bennet."

"The _intent _was the same," she insisted. "If she was indifferent to you, or if she had not been able to convince me of her feelings, I would have done everything within my power to persuade her against continuing in your engagement. I cannot, I will not, blame you for that." She waited, and relying solely upon her instincts, added, "But if you require my forgiveness, sir, you have it."

"Thank you, Miss Bennet."

As they walked a little further, Jane said, "If I may ask, sir, how did you know that Lizzy had told me of — of — "

"I did not know." Again, he smiled slightly. "I simply assumed that she had, with my knowledge of your close relationship."

Jane flinched. "That is why you were surprised, at first, that I did not know everything?"

"Yes. It seemed odd that she should tell you only part of what occurred, and at that the part which did not concern you."

She looked directly at him. "I thought so as well. You would not have done so, then?"

"I _did _not do so, no."

Jane puzzled briefly over this, then lifted up her eyes in astonishment. "You told Miss Darcy?"

"Not all, of course, but we did speak of what directly concerned _her_."

"Would you be greatly offended, sir, if I say that I hope Lizzy picks up some good habits from you?"

He looked startled, then smiled slowly. "No," he said, "I am not offended, Miss Bennet."

She held out her hand to him then, looking into his eyes. It was odd, she had never noticed before; they were very nearly the same colour as her own. "If we are to be brother and sister, sir," she said, "we should not be so formal. I would be honoured if you called me Jane."

_**A/N: **Another plot bunny, I have been positively inundated with them of late. I have always been struck by the likeness between these two intense, reserved people, who — in my opinion — suffer more deeply than any other characters. It is rightly noted that Darcy takes a step into intimacy when he uses Elizabeth's Christian name; but it is often overlooked that he also uses Jane's. I think that he would feel a moral obligation to tell Jane what he did, and have often wondered how Jane would react to (a) Bingley's persuadability, and (b) Elizabeth's secrecy._


	15. George Darcy

The dowager stared at me without saying a word, her eyes dark in her white colourless face. Lady Catherine was not so circumspect, and hurled epithets at me, eyes blazing in righteous fury. Her brother walked about in a hazy sort of unreality, unable to even comprehend what had happened. The children were by turns distressed, devastated, and merely bewildered.

And I? The memories slammed into me, with such force that I thought I should go mad. The misery of our last years seemed distant and remote, and I could only think of how I had loved her, how I had thought of nothing but Lady Anne Fitzwilliam for months on end, of her brilliance and beauty and singular sweetness. What had happened? She had not loved me, perhaps I had not truly loved her, but there was something, why had we not done better? I had wanted to possess her in every way possible, but she always remained unattainable, I could not comprehend why she would not _understand_ that she was no longer a Fitzwilliam but my wife.

It came to me, then, that _I _had killed her, as much as if I had held a pistol to her head. I could not bear it. I sent for more wine. First a glass, then another, and finally a whole bottle; and then another after that.

"You shouldn't be here," a clear voice said dispassionately. I peered up, catching a glimpse of vibrant blue eyes and untidy black hair, the slim figure and the room spinning around.

"Anne?" I managed to croak, vaguely wondering if the past fortnight had been nothing more than a nightmarish dream.

A thin hand snatched the two empty bottles and another half-full one away, impervious to my feeble protests. "No," the voice said coldly — it was deeper, not a woman's voice at all, yet it had the same intonation and timbre as that which tortured me, echoing through my mind no matter how much I drank. "It's Fitzwilliam. Mother would be ashamed of you."

I laughed shrilly, and grabbed one of the bottles from him — an empty one, unfortunately. Fitzwilliam took several steps back.

"Give it back," I said unsteadily.

"No," said Anne's son. I could not make out his face. As far as I was concerned, it was Anne's face and Anne's voice and Anne's —

I never remembered what happened next. The first thing I recalled was waking up with the most acutely painful hangover I had ever experienced. None of the servants acted as if anything was different, yet I knew something was very wrong.

"The earl," I persisted, "where is he?"

"He left early Saturday morning with his mother," Roberts said obediently. Further questions betrayed that the Fitzwilliams had apparently up and vanished two days prior, and that I had lost the memory of an entire four days. The thought provoked a vaguely disturbing impression. _Fitzwilliams, Fitzwilliams, Fitzwilliam — Fitzwilliam! _I straightened and swallowed more coffee. Although Fitzwilliam had made himself scarce since Anne's death, I was well accustomed to his quiet presence by now.

I set down my cup. "Where is my son?" I demanded.

Roberts looked surprised. "Lord Matlock said the matter was arranged, sir. He took Master Fitzwilliam with him when he left."

I was somehow horrified and unsurprised at the same time. Anne had been taken from me, and she was so inextricably bound with Fitzwilliam in my thinking that it was only logical that Fitzwilliam should be gone as well. As for my erstwhile brother-in-law, he had never liked me, and was probably crowing over me from Yorkshire while my son — well, did whatever it was he did in his spare time, accompanied by the omnipresent pair of Henry and Richard. "I see," I said numbly. "Did he say anything else?"

"He left a letter, sir. He wished you to receive it as soon as possible."

"Well?"

Roberts looked pointedly at my unfinished coffee. I grimaced and gulped the rest down, and he retrieved the letter from heavens-knew-where. My brother's close, precise hand was unmistakable, yet there was an uncharacteristic slight unevenness to his script, and I felt a chill as some of his phrases leapt out at me.

_. . . your vicious conduct . . . your own son . . . debt to my sister . . . I have always cared for Fitzwilliam . . . let him be . . . she deserved better . . . look at her portrait and remember —_

_Dear Lord, _I thought in horror, _what is it? Anne — Fitzwilliam — oh, my God; what have I done? _I stood in front of her portrait, and once again felt the darkness of despair overwhelming my mind. The spectre of her living gaze I found in the painting and in her son's face, and I could not bear either.

I destroyed the portrait.

_**A/N: **Goodness, this is rather . . . dark. Much darker than I had anticipated. Perhaps I shall amend this later, but at the moment, it stands. He's not exactly stable just now. Just as a pre-emptive answer, he never laid a hand on Anne. She was not murdered and she did not commit suicide. Fitzwilliam and her mother were with her when she died. What exactly occured between Mr Darcy and his son during the former's blank period is up to your imagination, but I would point out that it isn't so awful that anyone but Mr Darcy, Fitzwilliam, Lord Matlock, and the dowager know anything of it; but it is awful enough that Lord Matlock does not feel he can justify leaving Fitzwilliam at Pemberley until Mr Darcy recovers his wits and sobriety._


	16. Thomas Bennet

Thomas Bennet was not certain whether to be relieved, discomposed, or distressed. He settled for a combination of all three, as he gazed at the self-possessed young man he had — apparently in common with the rest of the country — so severely misjudged. Mr Darcy himself did not seem remotely perturbed at the awkward silence his future father-in-law felt so acutely.

"Ah, Mr Darcy," he said pleasantly, "thank you for sparing a few moments of your time." His delight in folly made the interview, uncomfortable as it was, a matter of some anticipation. He knew little of this particular man, but he knew the ways of young lovers, and seeing the grand Fitzwilliam Darcy fallen prey to the little absurdities that plagued those in this position should be vastly amusing. On the other hand, he had no desire to owe the man anything, son-in-law or not.

Darcy said something polite and waited, still to all appearances perfectly content and composed. Of course, he had every reason to be content, given Elizabeth's openly and consistently affectionate manner with him. Any man loved by such a woman must be happy, at least for a time. Mr Bennet sighed.

"It seems, sir," he said deliberately, "that I am greatly indebted to you — indeed, that our entire family owes our current respectability."

Mr Bennet watched as Darcy coloured, looking rather more like the young man he was than the haughty master of Pemberley. "I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Mr Bennet," he said forthrightly. "You speak of your youngest daughter's recent marriage?"

"I do." With a grave expression, he said, "I am a gentleman and must insist upon paying my debt. How much do I owe you? It was no paltry sum, I am certain."

He waited with scarcely concealed delight, only catching a hint of something in the other man's eyes — impatience? annoyance? mere discomfort? — before Mr Darcy began speaking. "You are quite right, sir," he said quietly, much to Mr Bennet's astonishment and dismay, "it was no paltry sum. However, _I _must insist that you do nothing of the sort." (Mr Bennet breathed again, upon which occurrence he reflected, with some amusement, that happiness had not substantially altered the man's character.) "If my pride had not kept me from making Mr Wickham's character public, the entire affair could not have happened. I am also a gentleman, sir, and I willingly accept culpability for what occurred, and have remedied it as best as I can."

"Mr Darcy," Mr Bennet said, "you, of all people, are not responsible for this event. I do not believe knowledge of Mr Wickham's character would have been likely to deter my daughter from her course."

Darcy's features settled into familiar obstinate lines, strikingly reminiscent of Elizabeth when she was set on something. What a pair they would be! Mr Bennet pitied any who should cross them. Only today a luckless Lucas had professed some controversial opinion or other and had his argument promptly if courteously torn to shreds by the newly-engaged couple. "I know my responsibility, sir," Darcy said stubbornly.

It struck the older man that the entire discussion had passed without a single mention of Elizabeth's name. How singular. "I am persuaded, sir," he said, "that your intervention is not solely the consequence of your sense of culpability. Am I mistaken?"

Darcy blushed faintly. "I will not deny," he said steadily, "that my partiality for Miss Elizabeth added force to my pre-existing motivation for — intervening; but no more than that, I hope."

It was a far cry from ranting and storming, Mr Bennet reflected with a quiet sigh. Darcy still had not ceased calling his fiancée by any but the most formal name. If this was love, it was a very peculiar way of going about it. A peculiar man altogether, but Elizabeth loved him and presumably he loved Elizabeth, and they certainly seemed well-suited enough, against all odds.

"Very well, young man," he said flippantly, "you must answer your conscience, stringent as it may be. We will speak no more on this. I daresay you would much rather be enjoying my Lizzy's smiles than debating with an old man."

Darcy shrugged, refusing to be provoked. Whatever embarrassment he had felt seemed to have passed, and Mr Bennet felt as if he understood the other man even _less _than he had at the beginning of the interview. Ah, well. Lizzy was content with her choice, and it was not as if they lacked time to become acquainted.

_**A/N: **I've always wondered about this interview, since I find Mr Bennet's reaction to Darcy's "intervention" rather crass. I am quite, quite certain that Darcy could not "rant and storm" to save his life. I think, perhaps, that he also takes a perverse pleasure in being enigmatic and clever and evading expected behaviour. For this scene I have a little cheering squad in the back of my head that bursts into applause whenever Darcy startles Mr Bennet. Good for him, we say._


	17. Fitzwilliam Edward Darcy

There had always been something untouchable, inexplicable, about my mother. An intense vibrancy of spirit, something that had always drawn people to her. Her brilliant dark eyes, her slender restless hands, her clear light voice which grew very quick, the words tumbling over one another, when she was excited. She was someone who seemed to radiate joy, a joy which became quieter but no less profound as she grew older.

_My uncle spoke, his sombre, sorrowful voice carrying to all corners of the chapel. "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." Had he been very devout? I could hardly remember, my thoughts overwhelmed by loneliness and grief. He had never spoken the Lord's name casually. There had been reverence if not great humility. Could he be content in calm serenity of paradise? How he had loved a good debate, although quarrels he disliked intensely. Was he even now insisting on some obscure doctrinal point with the angels of heaven? Was he really there, somewhere? Or had he left utterly, gone beyond recall? _

"Hello, Edward," she said dispassionately. I stared. I knew not what I had expected, but it was not this. She was pale and colourless, but utterly composed. Yet the feeling of wrongness did not abate, it threatened to overwhelm me, I did not know what to do. It was as if everything that had made her _mother _had been drained out, and this white indifferent creature was left in her place. She truly seemed not to care about anything.

"_O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" I thought of Anne's face, frozen in a mask of beauty and despair. My dearest Anne, she had been so like him, she loved intensely and immoderately and kept no part of herself back. Father had been the world to her and she was lost without him. We were all lost. But she had become cold and remote, speaking to no-one, not until one day when I pressed food on her and she said, quite clearly, "I wish I were dead. Why could it not be me?" My aunt always said that men did not cry, and I had never seen my father do so, but at that moment I could not contain myself and sobbed like a child in my sister's arms. _

"Mother," I said, and pressed my lips against her cold cheek. Her hand was quite steady, and she managed the household as efficiently as she had ever done. "Are you well?"

"_Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ." No-one thought much of Elizabeth during those dreadful weeks. In that great house full of people, she was left to herself. Only Amelia thought of her, __found her in the library where, as a child, she had waltzed with our father, whirling high above the floor in his arms. She was trembling so violently she could not stand, and Amelia wept with her. _

"Yes, of course," mother said, her voice utterly without inflection. She went about her duties, having rooms opened for the guests, the entire family pouring in to pay their respects. I could not see that she cared at all, and the very foundations of my world were shaken. In his quiet, austere way, my father had loved her, as much as any man could; and it seemed somehow an insult to his memory that she did not even seem affected by his passing. It was Mrs Gardiner, my great-aunt, who sombrely told me, "You do your mother an injustice, Edward. She cannot grieve — yet, she does not dare."

"_Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. Amen." If Anne was devastated, my aunt Georgiana was desolate. She had always been a reserved, elegant woman, with a quality of stillness, of containment, that reminded me very much of my father. Now she was like a child, bewildered and unhappy beyond reason or recall. Her grief only seemed to increase as time passed; she withdrew more and more, her temper becoming erratic, despair settling more deeply on her until we hardly dared let her go anywhere by herself. "Aunt Georgiana — "_ _I said, and she looked at me, her hair loose about her shoulders, eyes wide and blank and dark, and said, "Fitzwilliam?" "No, no, it's Edward, I'm Fitzwilliam's son." She burst into noisy tears and ran away. We knew not what to do — what could be done? Nothing would bring him back to her, to any of us._

Even once most of the family had been disposed of, mother seemed incapable of feeling. She embroidered, day in and day out. She never touched the pianoforte. My aunt Jane did not leave even once her husband and children did. "She needs someone," she told me, and I replied sharply, "She has us." Aunt Jane smiled in her gentle way, and said kindly, "I'm sure you mean well, Edward." Dear Aunt Jane. Mother did seem a little better when she was there, not so much empty as frozen.

"_We give thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world; beseeching thee, that it may please thee, of thy gracious goodness, shortly to accomplish the number of thine elect, and to hasten thy kingdom." If there was one thing I could not do, it was give thanks. Gratitude? For this? Perhaps he had been elevated beyond the temporal world, but he had been happy here, he had not wanted to die, he had loved mother and us and Aunt Georgiana, and he had loved Pemberley, and I had heard him say more than once that if he had any choice he would never leave it. When Mr Collins expressed his condolences to my mother and siblings and I, I almost thought something flickered in her expressionless eyes. Alexander and Elizabeth had no such scruples, and lashed out at him. When he peered at me and began sanctimoniously, "Mr Darcy — " somehow it came crashing down. Not only was father dead, but Mr Darcy was dead, and **I **was Mr Darcy, the head of this family, and — dear Lord, how had he done it? How would I do it? No-one was left sane in this world — how could the world be sane at all, a world that would take a man such as my father with no warning? If there was any justice it would have been one of the Wickhams or Collinses or Elliots. Even one of the Bingleys or Fitzwilliams. **Anyone** but father._

She never went outside, although she had always loved Pemberley's grounds. She used to laugh that she had begun to love father when she first saw his grounds. They had hardly changed in the intervening years, father never bowed to the dictates of fashion, only propriety, and the family liked Pemberley as it was, thank-you-very-much. I'm not certain why I asked her to accompany me for a walk _that_ day, perhaps I thought it would do her good to get out of the house. I talked away incoherently, about my cousins, how John and Jane were faring, did they have any children yet, George was doing very well, young Reynolds seemed a little nervous, could something be done for her; and mother _mm-hmm_'ed and nodded at appropriate moments, until we reached the little bridge over the stream.

"You walked here once," I said.

"I have walked here many times," she said disinterestedly. "Shall we continue?"

"Yes, of course." There, the other path came towards us; and I stopped again.

"Edward — " mother said tightly, but I pressed on.

"This is where he came back — you did not think he would, did you? He could not see you, but you could see him. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Edward, I would like to return to the house."

"No, I think we had better stay here." Where the strength of purpose came from, I didn't know. Perhaps, once upon a time, my father had been just as lost and overwhelmed as I, and only sheer strength of will had kept him afloat. When I was very small, mother would pick me up, and point to my father as he went about being Mr Darcy, and say, _Do you see your papa, Edward? He is the very best of men, and someday, you shall be just like him. _And then she would laugh, because she always laughed after making any grave pronouncement.

Mother stood very still, but she was still such a little delicate thing, in frame if not character, and I held her where she was.

"Today is the fourth of August, mother. The same day, all those years ago, that you met him at this very spot. You were very young, weren't you? You didn't really care about what _he _felt, except as it related to you. He told me, once, what he was thinking then. He wanted to please you, he could not think of anything else. But he was very young himself, wasn't he? He did not think you would ever come to love him, because —" I smiled humourlessly — "you had told him so yourself. But he hoped you would _respect _him and that would be enough."

She turned pale, and said, in a steely voice, "Edward, you would do well to remember that I am still your mother."

I went on, raising my voice. "Did you ever regret saying that? Did you think of it at all? Or were you so certain that you understood his character, even after his letter, that you dismissed any feelings he might have as unworthy of your notice or regret? What about my uncle Wickham? You were angry at grandfather, but you did the same thing, didn't you? Did you ever care about that?"

I could see, now, how brittle her composure was. She trembled, not a great deal, not like Elizabeth, but just a little, as she stared at me. I softened, reached out a hand to touch her cheek. "Perhaps you were not worthy of him, although he would laugh if you said so, but you loved him. You loved him beyond reason, and he never understood how it had happened, but you made him happy. He never really knew how to be happy before you. You gave him that."

"Fitzwilliam," she whispered, looking away, at the path he had walked out of all those years ago. Then, with a bewildered, wounded expression, she turned to me. "Edward," she said, astonishment creeping over her face, "he's _gone_."

"Yes, mother," I said gently, and in that moment, she fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands, gasping for breath as sobs tore out of her throat. She rocked back and forth, and after a brief awkward moment, the sun shining brightly through the trees, I knelt beside her and put my arms around her. "Mother," I whispered, resting my cheek against her hair, "I love you — I'm sorry — I'm so sorry — "

"_The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen."_

"Edward," Aunt Jane began sternly, and I gazed at her, catching my reflection on the opposite side of the room. It was easy to forget that I was my father's son as well as my mother's, until I looked in the mirror.

"Please don't call me that," I said abruptly, and she stopped, stared.

"I beg your pardon?"

I sighed, and set down the letter I had been reading on my desk; and now, somehow, it _was _my desk. I was no longer an interloper playing some ridiculous game. "Aunt Jane," I said calmly, "my name is Fitzwilliam Darcy."

_**A/N: **I'm a bit sorry myself. This one, as you might guess, has been a fairly traumatic experience. I wanted it to be a little fractured, reflecting Edward's reactions to his father's death and its consequences, which is where the jerkiness, from Edward dealing with Elizabeth, to the funeral service, to his reflections on how the rest of the family is dealing with it, comes from. It was originally AU but I fixed it so that we don't really know when this is occurring. Or perhaps I should say **you** don't know. : )_


	18. Georgiana Darcy

"Georgiana, am I ungentlemanly?"

I stopped looking through my music and stared at my brother. He did not _look _drunk. He had been rather dispirited of late, but neither now nor at any other time had I ever seen him inebriated. I knew from my friend Miss Grantley that most young ladies were not so fortunate. _Her _brothers woke up with dreadful headaches from drinking the night before, and then drank some more to get rid of them. "Of course not," I said. "Did Richard say so?"

Our cousin Richard was a very singular person. I could not imagine anyone else saying something so absurd. My brother could not possibly come to such an erroneous conclusion on his own, I had never seen him so much as falter. No-one was perfect but if my brother had flaws, I hadn't seen them. "No, no," Fitzwilliam replied absently. "Not he."

So someone had told him, as I thought. How ridiculous. If my brother was not a gentleman no-one was. "Well, whoever it was, he cannot have been very sensible, to say such a thing," I said. "I do not know a better man than you. What shall I play?"

I was not looking in his direction, but I could feel his smile from across the room. "You are too good for me, Georgiana," he said affectionately, and I laughed.

"Fitzwilliam, I am not — " honesty compelled me to amend, "I am not especially good. You are the one, my dear brother, who is too good for the rest of us."

"Oh no, Georgiana — "

And no doubt we would have continued our mutual admiration _ad infinitum _if the Marquess of Westhampton had not been announced at that moment. Lord Westhampton was one of my brother's dearest friends, a cousin on my father's side, but as I had only just come out I had scarcely seen him, he had no sisters.

"Darcy."

"Westhampton."

My brother sprang up and, with a warm smile, shook hands, and I quickly excused myself. Too curious for my own good, however, I hesitated at the door.

"— young lady," Lord Westhampton was saying.

"Georgiana?" Fitzwilliam sounded sincerely surprised. "Yes, I suppose so."

"_That _was little Georgiana?"

Little Georgiana indeed! "Miss Darcy to you," Fitzwilliam replied, his voice acquiring a trace of coolness. Lord Westhampton laughed heartily.

"Surely you do not suspect me of designs on your sister, Darcy?"

"Of course not — as such," said Fitzwilliam. "But, you know, one can never be too careful."

"I do not know, I have no sisters or daughters, and my only eligible cousin is the lovely Miss Darcy, who I have just been expressly warned off from."

"I did not say so," Fitzwilliam said calmly. One of the nicest things about my brother was that he was never cross and never raised his voice. "You may speak to Miss Darcy all you wish, if you do so with propriety, but I will not have her upset. She is not like other young ladies, with nothing but dances and millinery in their heads, she is sensible and sweet-natured and she deserves better."

"I see," said Lord Westhampton, almost gravely, "you are a most conscientious brother."

I slipped away, but the conversation rang in my ears, and as I lay in bed that evening, I felt I could have danced all night for all that I disliked it more than anything. I could not have said which gave my greater joy, my brother's sincere commendation, or my cousin's casual remark, _the lovely Miss Darcy. _I hugged my pillow to myself and laughed softly.

_**A/N: **I have always had a peculiar fondness for Georgiana. I think will be the last of my regular vignettes, I have enough plot bunnies here to keep me going a long while._

_**adriennelane: **Indeed I have. I'm glad you liked it._

_**June W: **thanks. I'm glad it was sad, it was meant to be. I was so glad I had already done Anne's vignette, because hers was the original character I thought to tell this from, and it was devastating enough as it was. I'm glad you like Edward's response. I have had that particular line in mind for him since before I really had any idea of him except of 'the heir.' You must have been confused if you thought this was Fitzwilliam at first!_

_**Teresa: **It's not? Where are the others? I've only read one, "When Mountains Fall," but I would love to read some more. Especially the beautiful one. Mostly I've seen stories where Elizabeth dies first, and although I have one of those in the back of my mind, I needed to get this out first. I'm glad you could really feel Elizabeth's grief, as well as the other family members', Elizabeth has always been the hardest character for me to write. Your second interpretation was I think closest to what I had in mind. Elizabeth's loss was so great that she did not dare even acknowledge it, particularly with everyone else so blown to pieces — Fitzwilliam is one of those people, he is not charismatic but he is intense and overwhelming and has such a personality, he manages everything and everyone can rely on him and then — he is simply gone and it's as if the foundation of their world has been ripped out from underneath them. She could not bear her grief when there was so much to do and she did not dare face it afterwards, but Edward in his way was trying to help. Yes, he was trying to make her **feel **her loss, because she did not seem to realise it and he found that terribly disturbing. He also was struggling with some things that bothered me when I first read P&P, that didn't really occur to him until his father was gone and his mother seemed so indifferent because they were so happy and loving together. I'm glad you liked it and that it made you think, that's the best compliment a writer can get! I've had no trouble with your English, it's excellent._

_**Kyra3: **I'm glad you thought I did a good job of it. _

_**ann: **Thank you so much! I hope I did a creditable job of it. Ah, I see what you meant now. I was a little confused whether you were saying you liked the originals, like Cecily, Anne (Darcy), etc, or the originals like Anne (de Bourgh), Mr Darcy, Jane, and so forth. I am so very glad you find my characters true to the original, that is of course my intent — that is why I started writing, I was so dissatisfied because the characters in most fanfic where not remotely like my own. Humour? I? Surely you jest. :) Don't worry, you make perfect sense._


	19. Happy Christmas!

_**A/N: **I know, I said the last was the final one, but — well — it was Christmas, and I could not help but write one to end the year with. This is AU, a sort of — excerpt, if you will, a fragment, from a larger 'what-if' style story I've been working on for awhile (in this, Darcy marries shortly after Bingley does — quite necessarily as a gentle and kind lady he cares a great deal for and happens to be related to is in a desperate situation requiring a husband — the lady dies within a year, while Elizabeth remains unmarried — Lady C incidentally never visited her, which is why he could marry his cousin with clear conscience). I must beg leave for the peculiar mood pervading this piece and Elizabeth's mind. It was loosely inspired by "The Nutcracker." Oh, and all replies to the reviews for this chapter will be posted to my livejournal, which is linked from the author page. So forgive my loquacity, enjoy this last vignette, and everyone have a very happy Christmas! _

Elizabeth was enchanted by the small wood, snow whirling about, catching on her eyelashes and in her hair. Nobody was around to see — so she laughed out loud, twirling around and around. It would not do for a respectable maiden aunt of seven-and-twenty to be seen in such childlike abandon; but she was safe here. The otherworldly sense of — yes, enchantment, that was just the right word — persisted. She was perhaps not in her _own _world, it did not belong to her — rather the reverse, and who knew who else might belong here?

When she caught sight of a small slender figure, warmly and finely dressed in fur-lined blue, it seemed only part and parcel of the entire bewitchment. The snow crunched underneath Elizabeth's boots, and the child turned to gaze at her soberly. She was, in a distant, ethereal, even cold, fashion, quite, quite lovely — a fairy or spirit created out of the enchantment of the day, someone she felt almost that she _knew_. There was certainly something very familiar about her. Elizabeth laughed at her own fancy and gaily greeted the child, "Good morning."

The little girl blinked, and replied gravely, "Is it? I have not yet decided. My papa says that you will always be dissatisfied if you are not prepared to be pleased, though, and that you cannot be happy unless you try very hard at it, so I think you are right and it _is _a good day. I do love the snow. Last year I was ill all through the winter and never saw any of it. It was dreadful. But papa says I should be grateful I can see the snow this winter and never mind the last one, because I very nearly died and then I would never have seen any snow again."

"Your father is very wise," Elizabeth replied cheerfully. "Do by any chance know where we are?"

"Oh, yes. Mr Bingley is my god-father but there is so much noise and, and — it is too much. You understand?"

Elizabeth thought of the constant derisive witticisms of Lady Elliot, formerly Miss Bingley; of her mother's and sisters' complaints; of _how _she missed her father even after all these months, of how, without the alliance of like minds that had characterised that relationship, even Jane's sweetness and Bingley's amiability wore on her, impatience eating at her. Even despite her growing discontent and disillusionment at home, she had been able to be happy, it was in her nature to be so, regardless of disappointment. But now —

"Yes," she said softly, by instinct reaching out to caress the girl's rosy cheek, "yes, I understand."

The child smiled radiantly, and the sense of familiarity only increased. "That is what papa does!" she cried happily. "And then he says he loves me or kisses me. Papas are very nice, don't you think?"

"Yes, very nice," Elizabeth said, smiling. "I fear I am rather lost. Could you help me find my way back?"

"Oh, yes." Graciously, the little girl offered her small, warm hand, and pulled her along, seeming almost to dance amid the whirling snow. Elizabeth thought, dazedly, that _here _was the author of the enchantment, there was something about her — she had almost recognised her, she had thought she ought to, ought to know her, and yet it was not — she did not know.

After several minutes, she felt slightly uneasy, not recognising any of the paths the child led her so confidently through. "Are you certain . . ." she began.

Black plaits flew as she tossed her head, blue eyes sparking icy indignation. Elizabeth _knew _that look, the proud arch of the brows, the fine striking features, even the slant of the eyes as they stared in disdain. She remembered watching as her cousin bowed and scraped, waves of humiliation blunting her joy for a beloved sister — and then meeting those same eyes, with the same expression, from across the room, and the sharp unreasonable anguish of the moment broken by a sudden brilliant smile.

"Of course I am certain," the little girl replied haughtily, marching forward with utter confidence.

Yes, she ought to have known her, known by her own feelings of half-reluctant fascination — known at least that no other child could share _such _manners, gracious and imperious in equal measure. The connection made, the little girl pulled at her heart even more, as her own nieces and nephews could not, even as she pulled her forward, towards the house just made visible through the trees.

Then strong grip slackened, there was a whirl of deep blue out of the corner of her eye — whether a child's dress or man's coat, she could not tell — and warm laughter rang out from this most unlikely source.

"Papa!" the cry of delight came.

Elizabeth gathered her courage and turned, with a smile, to face the pair. She had expected, she had thought, that the enchantment would break then, that she would be pulled back to earth with a sharply unpleasant jolt; but it was not like that at all. The little girl, clinging to her father's side, long limbs dangling down haphazardly, still seemed the half-fairy creature who had dropped into this world, lightning out of a clear sky — and _he _was himself and yet he belonged as well, almost as well as he belonged at Pemberley.

It _was _like Pemberley, all over again, only that bit less awkward. She blushed and exclaimed, "Mr Darcy!" _His _colour was nearly as high when he returned the greeting. Otherwise he appeared very much as he ever had.

"Miss Bennet, this _is _an unexpected pleasure," he said earnestly. The small Miss Darcy tightened her grip about her father's neck, contentedly pressing her cheek against his coat. Elizabeth wondered if it was _very _silly to envy the liberties a small child could take with her father. "You are Miss Bennet still?" he added, his expression gaining something of trepidation.

Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, thank you, sir."

"I — " he glanced down at his daughter, and smiled involuntarily. "I see that you have met my Anne."

"I have." Elizabeth turned her gaze on the child, and addressed her once more. "Thank _you_, Miss Darcy, for your kindness in helping me. I was quite lost, you see," she explained to the bemused Mr Darcy, "and your daughter was good enough to help me find my way."

"You're welcome," Anne replied sleepily. "You are much nicer than Lady Elliot, Miss Bennet, she _always _fusses just because her brother is my god-father."

Elizabeth could not keep her brows from quirking a little. She thought she could think of a few more reasons that Lady Elliot might fuss over Miss Darcy, particularly if Sir William was in as poor health as was rumoured. It seemed that Mr Darcy could as well by the sudden deepening of his colour. "Anne," he said halfheartedly, "you should not speak about Mr Bingley's sister in such a fashion."

"Why not, papa? She is unkind, I have heard the servants — "

"And you most certainly should _not_ repeat servants' gossip," he interrupted, suddenly very stern. Anne pouted and pressed her cold nose into her father's neck. Elizabeth could not conceal her smile at this, and, rather awkwardly, he smiled back. "It is very cold, we should probably return to the house," he said, and added hesitantly, "May I escort you in, Miss Bennet?"

She knew the quality of her expression changed perhaps too much at this, she ought not to be so happy at mere _politesse_. But it was an indescribably lovely day; and Christmas was approaching quickly; and she felt happiness, glimmering and vast, so close, she could almost touch it. Her smile deepened.

"I would be honoured, Mr Darcy."


End file.
